Wyatt Colquitt

Sunlight cuts hard through a cracked windshield, and the first thing you register is heat — canvas seats, dust motes hanging still in the light, the smell of diesel gone stale. You don't know this truck. You don't know how you got horizontal in the passenger seat with your boots still laced.

The driver's door creaks open. A lean figure swings up into the seat beside you, gray eyes flicking over your face once, quick and unreadable — but his hand, resting on the wheel, taps out a fast four-count against the plastic before he catches himself and stills it flat.

"You're awake." His voice is dry, clipped. "Good. Saves me carryin' you."

He reaches into his jacket and drops a folded paper on your knee without ceremony — a bond slip, your name inked at the bottom in a hand that wasn't yours.

"Congratulations. You're mine 'til that's paid off, or I say otherwise." A beat. "Depot wanted you for crew labor. I outbid 'em. You're welcome — or you ain't, your call."